Sicily, The Ever Beautiful



Sicily, The Ever Beautiful

 A couple of months ago, I rowed my boat

to sail the seas, woven red.

Oars could hear them, the planks groaned

But the souls of our heart's dreads gelled.


Long have I sought the Sicily, a Sicily

yet no master to beseech, my heart tossed

itself to water, growing weary

and seas of cold and thunder we crossed.


I was a harvester, witnessing Sicily,

with her laughter pouring like golden wheat fields,

there I stood, unsown, and there she was,

a scythe that drew my blood.


I was a sailor, witnessing Sicily,

And to my sight, I found Trinacria.

She stood at the three capes of my longing, 

spinning like the legs of Trinacria.

In the fields, she stood calmly, elegantly,

and the cliffs welcomed me, a delicacy

that poisoned me, tarnished me.

On the final foot, stood the unspoken, anchoring me

to the very isle that I could not speak upon me.

Like windmills of a mountain that sought no lake,

I brought doom upon a windmill that was already spinning.


I was an enemy, daring to step on the flag of Sicily,

Like Palermo, I ran with passion and sought blood,

and like Corleone, I hoped to welcome sunlight.

Yet, in the end,

In her yellow dawn, my red ache found no voice,

for it foretold this story was not mine.


When I sailed the world to break the world beneath,

I rowed my boat to reach an isle of salvation.

My boat cried: "Merely this world welcomes us,

O' captain, are we at the edge of a gust of lust?"

She was the island in my sea of hesitation;

 I, a boat unmoored.


Beneath Sicily, I laid low as I became Etna,

An eruption of passion, unleashing destruction.

Where she welcomed gust of heaven through her gates,

I fumed and choked the lava of unsaid words.


I was a carver of verses and poems,

she, a masterpiece of ornate horses or a vibrant facade.

The quietness of our hands was tormented

my heart, a silent wheel within.


I was a glass maker, showing the worlds within,

to a lady who sought no Sun, for she had one within.

In her, I saw ruins of ancient stories of what I harvested,

In me, she was a harvester that cared for no wheat.


I was a flower... of carpets long withstood

the darkness of hallways of my halls within.

I was then the petals on the street of Noto,

then I was shunned, an ephemeralness of confession followed.


Sicily, the ever beautiful required no words

nor did I have the words to share fragments

of a beauty long withstood, no more for me.

Alas, the Sun does not feign for Apollo has died

nor were oceans dry for Poseidon has cried

or islands were consumed for Zeus writhed.

But of me, long have my pieces been scattered,

verses dipped in blood to feed upon lyrics true

no more.

Sicily shall not sink, for I have subsided

and dare I say it shall grow blossoms on carpets

that I was stepped on, now perished.

Will there be another Sicily?

I was no lucky sailor

To begin with.


We can no longer withstand the truth that collapsed our columns within our hearts.

Promised to be an October idea, no more.

November 7, 2025

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